Seven
by DAGOTH UR DID NOTHING WRONG
Summary: If Desmond had had time to think about the situation he was currently in, chances are he would've decided that the precursors were lying bastards. And if he'd had an opportunity to tell them so, he definitely would. (SPOILERS FOR GAMES 1-3)
If Desmond had had time to think about the situation he was currently in, chances are he would've decided that the precursors were lying bastards. And if he'd had an opportunity to tell them so, he definitely would. He would, except that he was now experiencing more pain than anyone could possibly handle, which was exactly the opposite of what they said it would be like. Dying, that is. He wasn't even sure that he was handling it himself. The only thing he could think to do to was count down the short-but-oh-so-long seconds until it was all over and all his suffering was replaced by the numb feeling of death's embrace, which he would've gladly welcomed at that point.

One. And suddenly all of his agony was replaced by the biting pain of guilt, and he found himself standing before Al Mualim in the stone cold walls of Masyaf fortress, his – no, _Altair's_ \- home since birth. The physical pain was nearly gone, but when he looked to the left he saw Malik standing there and the sight of his friend suffering along with him was almost worse, clutching his arm, ruined beyond repair, and grieving over the loss of his brother. He had felt the cold shadow of guilt creep into his consciousness in that moment, he had experienced what nobody else could, and suddenly the sturdy walls around him that had seemed so safe crumbled around him and he was once again Desmond Miles, the one who sacrificed himself to save the world.

Two. He could feel every moment passing, every second, half-second, and millisecond, dragging by so slowly he felt he'd suffered longer than the universe itself had lived. Wave after wave of fire flowing over him and suddenly he was back at Masyaf, only the air was thick with the smell of blood and again the pain was replaced, this time with a cold anger, so tame yet so strong that one touch would be enough to freeze the world, because that was his _son_ that he would never see again and those was _Malik's_ eyes staring at him from the disembodied head at his feet. And that was a betrayer standing before him, mocking and proud and cruel, a divine figure with the world at his feet. Instead of fire it was ice in his blood as he watched this traitor, who wore the robes of the Mentor but had no concept of, nor did he deserve to know what they represented.

Three. He blinked, and now there was fear and confusion and the constant thoughts of _no no no please no_ running through his mind, sending it spinning and reeling, and the floor dropped from beneath the feet of his father and brothers. The sound of the rope going slack under the weight of three bodies was one that echoed over the crowd of people that wouldn't just _get out of the way_ and burned into his mind, and now there was the pain of denial. If he could just _get over there_ , if the people would _move, just move_ he could save them, they could be saved, he wouldn't have to see his mother and sister grieve. That horrible sound stopped and for a moment someone shouted and it took a second to realize it was him. And suddenly there was someone telling him to run as hands grasped at him and the shriek of swords being drawn was muted in his ears and everything became a blur as he turned and ran, because maybe if he ran enough everything would become just a distant memory.

Four. Everything was still and silent. His footsteps fell noiselessly on the floor and a bitter taste filled his mouth as he turned the corner to confirm that what he saw wasn't just some trick of the light. A large knife protruded from a single, jagged stab wound in Yusuf's back, pinning a piece of parchment stained red to his body. The air became thick with the sharp scent of blood, and he approached the body of his friend. The knife was pulled out and dropped carelessly to the side. He didn't bother reading the note. Yusuf's skin was cold in his hands as he eased him into what he deemed a more comfortable position and closed his eyes for the last time.

"You have earner your rest, brother. Requiescat in pace."

Five. He was Ratonhnhaké:ton. Only he was small and weak and his skin was slick with sweat from the inferno surrounding him. He cried out, but the fire only roared and stole his voice as well as the land that had once been his home. His legs – he felt they should be stronger, had they been stronger at one point? – carried him to where his house has once been, and then he heard coughing, and his heart filled with hope. Only the door was blocked, and when he found his way around his mother was trapped, and she told him to leave but he couldn't, he _couldn't_ , and she held his hand, the one comforting warmth in the blaze around them. The hope that he had felt was crushed, and replaced with the void of loss as someone grabbed him and he screamed that _no, he could save her, he could save her_ but it was too late and the roof caved in around her and that was the last he ever saw of his mother.

Six. There was blood on his hands. Blood on his face, blood on his mind and blood pouring through his soul. There was his father, a stranger, who should have been there but wasn't, laying before his feet. The rage faded, and he was left, alone, as always, with the body of someone who had once been his father. He remained there for a second, before leaving a few words of parting behind and turning to leave. He never looked back.

Seven seconds, and he was Desmond Miles. Desmond Miles, with years of regret and loneliness weighing on his shoulders, years spent running, always running, before he was forced to stop for breath. Only he had experienced so much more, the pain of loss, of rage, of guilt, of fear when he would wake up and have to remember that his name was Desmond Miles and not Altair Ibn-La'Ahad or Ezio Auditore da Firenze or Haytham Kenway or Ratonhnhaké:ton and now, the pain of death because in the end, he'd never had a choice. When he'd ran away, he though that had been his choice, when in reality it had only been an illusion.

There was light everywhere, and Desmond wished nothing more than for everything to just end. Even the bitter taste of death would be a relief after even seven seconds of this anguish. His thoughts flitted briefly to the people he'd chosen to leave behind, and for a split second of his diminishing time on earth he felt guilty, but then there was more pain and then a burning numbness that settled under his skin and the light softened. He felt himself falling, and the echo of his last breath rang in his ears as his body fell to the ground and the centuries of lives he'd shared died along with him.

He had earned his rest.

 **I hope that wasn't too rushed. I don't even know why I wrote this, really, I just had an idea in the middle of class and then this happened. I had more ideas for this but it was difficult to fit everything in without it getting even more cluttered than it already is. I might rewrite this later, but who knows.**

 **I hope you enjoyed**


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